Anecdotes and poems by Tiago Tillin

THE MONASTERY - Tiago Tillin

It lay serenely on a shelf, cocooned in spruce trees. For Mike Tindling, this was to be his ersatz home for.......

The Tyrolean village of Soll is beshadowed by the towering Hohe Salve that looms out of a halo of unshifting clouds as though protecting the village. The three-stage chair-lift elevates visitors to the Spitze restaurant from where the views across the forty miles of mountains and valleys draws the eye to the ice-capped alps whose parent peak is the Gross Glockner, the pride of Austria.
The fourteenth of August. the feast of Maria im Himmelfahrt, the village school buzzed with activity. Crowds had filtered into the playground to dance or just listen to the local oompah band whilst others chatted over schnapps or beer. Some displayed their prowess, partaking in log-sawing or alpine-horn-blowing competitions. Tindling had arranged to meet Br. Dominic after the final concert, held in the onion-topped baroque church, but he was nowhere to be seen. They had struck up a friendship three years beforehand during a similar festival.
The following morning, Tindling set off early along the Worgl road that would lead him to the fourteenth century monastery. A decision he would always regret.
Easing open the massive wrought-iron gates set in high walls, Tindling embraced the bliss and peace that the place exuded. The sun had not yet reached its zenith and the temperature was perfect for the short hike that brought him to this religious haven.
Tindling tugged on the antiquated rod on the door frame, springing into life a bell in the domestic quarters. Shortly, a square-headed monk materialised in the doorway. "GruB Gott!" he greeted, "Kommen Sie herein, Herr Tindling, we have been expecting you." At this, the robust brother led him into a grotesque hall that looked more like a warehouse for antiques, whilst he evaporated into some inner sanctum. How did this modern Friar Tuck know his name? Why had he been expected? Tindling sensed that there was something wrong, if not sinister about the situation.
"Entschuldigung!" he called after him, "how do you know....." - too late - Tuck had vanished. Tindling shivered involuntarily as he heard a creak behind him. He turned to find he was looking into the barrel of a Luger held by a rather scraggy monk.
"If this is your idea of recruiting, I'm not surprised there are so many miserable-faced looking monks roaming this planet," Tindling complained. As he finished speaking he performed a roundhouse followed by a side kick to the monk's wrist, disarming him with the surprise attack, at the same time diving for his gun. The scraggy monk tried desperately to assume the sitting position as he said, "Not so fast, hear me out - we had to do it this way as we know you would have never come here by invitation. We need you urgently to work on a vital project. We are not criminals but it is a matter of life or death."
"I'm here on holiday and intend to keep it that way. Now, tell me about Brother Dominic - where is he? What's happened to him?"
"He doesn't wish to see you - not yet."
"I'm walking out of here - I'll shoot the first person who tries to stop me, Brother or no." At this he backed out of the front door and with alarming alacrity sped for the gates - locked! - sounds of dogs approaching - shoot - one Dobermann down, three to go - too late! "Get off - down boy!" Kicking frantically to fight off the attack, his hopes were completely shattered as he saw a pew full of monks appear, each armed with an offensive weapon of a sort. He felt a slight prick in his leg and was them swallowed into a black hole.
When he came to, his arms and legs felt weighted by a ton of concrete - he just couldn't lift them.
"Don't fight it," said a disembodied voice, "you will be all right but you will not be able to move your limbs until I give you the antidote."
Tindling was incarcerated within the monastery - he was free to roam the grounds as security was tight and there were no means of escape. He was promised good care and attention in return for his working for them.
After the first week, Br Dominic appeared and apologised for the cloak and dagger behaviour of the brothers. At first, feeling guilty for Tindling's internment, he said little but brought him a few luxuries and later became more conversant - yet there was always the distance between them that had grown out of the situation - he knew of nothing that could restore the confidence and friendship they had previously experienced.
If you put a chicken in a cage without food or water and affix a button that will provide victuals when depressed, it will soon learn how to use it. Mike Tindling's situation was similar; his button to freedom was the success of the task he was given, so he worked hard for weeks with all the equipment he asked for. There were signs of progress and he was certain that within a very short time he would have achieved a major advancement though nothing could be conclusive. Another ten months saw a major breakthrough.
Haste for results was essential as their desperation turned to fear, reflected in the brothers' daily routine. Their beloved Abbot was dying; however, Mike Tindling's expertise had finally consoled them for the abbot was well on the way to finding a cure if not a total cure, then a drug that would prolong life - maybe within another twelve months - then hopefully success!
Freedom and fame were within his grasp - but above all, relief of suffering for thousands of AIDS sufferers - I should know - my name is Dr Mike Tindling.




THE CHICKEN - Tiago Tillin

We are told not to put new wine into old bottles - likewise new chickens should not be put amongst old ones for the new will upset the old and they will stop laying. Chickens are indeed very finicky creatures who are easily disturbed emotionally. They have supersensitive hearing and very sharp sight, yet the strength of their feet and legs is powerful enough to excavate deep holes in frozen solid earth. They are equally at ease scoffing a hundredweight of cement as with a sack full of corn.
Wishing to augment my nine Warren Studlers, I sauntered to the Tuesday market where I was moved to bid for ten Black Leghorn point-of-lay pullets. Their battery upbringing was in evidence as soon as they were put into the run, for each in turn stretched, flapped its wings and charged, looking more like jet planes taking off. The they would stop abruptly as if hitting an invisible wall, faced by another hen who would ruffle its neck feathers in preparation for combat, thinking itself under attack and then back off as another repeated the whole process. The run had become a giant airport without a control tower. The newcomers looked so pale and delicate beside the residents.
Unless vaccinated as pullets, hens will suffer a psychological disease, marix, for they will waste away with worry about laying eggs. Apparently these black creatures had not been vaccinated.
Keeping a small quantity of hens for domestic use encourages one to treat them as pets for they soon become tame or even friendly, perhaps too much so - some will attack the slightest mark on a finger or the turn-ups of trousers whilst others will 'bomb' you as you sneak in at night to collect the eggs. Each chicken is usually named according to its peculiar characteristics or colouring - Mottle, Coffee, Wattle, Combless and so on.
Thorpe Cottage is situated in the middle of a farm about a mile from the town centre of an East Midlands market town, with ample grounds for an attractive garden and a chicken run, the latter being well concealed behind a hedge of Leylandii or Castle Wellands. The chicken-house is a converted seven by five shed with a small door set in the main one. To ensure protection from prowling foxes, we always bolt the little door at dusk after the birds have settled to roost and count them to ensure all are present.
Blacky, who acquired her name from the lack of any other colour on her feathers, strutted up and down the inside of the wire mesh, making her complaint known to all the neighbourhood - that she intended going into production for the very first time. Earlier that morning I had provided sport and entertainment by throwing crusts of bread and a few bacon rinds into the run which created both a rugby match and some tug o' war. Blacky was too preoccupied with pre-production problems to join in the All blacks versus The Rest. Restless, she paid many visits to the nest before selecting one that gave her security and comfort. She finally took residence in the corner. 'The Rest' had duly filed in, done their duty and left, informing all and sundry of their achievement. A very proud Blacky eventually emerged from the nest, threw some straw over her back and launched forth into an excited cackle that had all the other hens going off half-cocked in sympathy.
That evening I duly counted the brood to roost - ten blacks and nine browns. All was quiet - no visitors as far as I could tell - no disturbance with the girls, yet the next morning there were great lamentations after counting them out of their house - nine browns and only NINE blacks - Blacky as missing. I checked and doubly checked - poor thing, just after producing her first pride and joy! And then to land up on someone's table. Christmas was only a week away. I was miserable all day - the worst must have happened. After all the efoort she made to produce her first offering! Who would have stooped so low? Surely any thief would have taken more than one to make the trip worthwhile?
Accepting the sad situation I counted them in again at dusk - nine of each team - and bolted the door as usual, still hoping that I had made a mistake. Sure enough, the final check inside the house confirmed my arithmetic.
The following morning I prepared the water for poaching Blacky's egg, looking at its formation - so smooth - a whole day's work. Could I bring myself to crack and poach it? I decided to defer my breakfast until I had released the girls, fed and watered them.
I counted out the hens as they fought for space, sometimes two trying to get out simultaneously and then realising the futility, would reverse and try again. I counted five browns, six - six blacks, seven, eight, nine browns, nine blacks - no wait - TEN blacks!
Imagine my amazement as I considered the reality of the situation: Blacky had returned, unbolted the tiny door herself, let herself in and shot the outside bolt - from the INSIDE!



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The Conscript - Tiago Tillin

On a hot boulder he sat, eyes squinting against the sun,
A nonchalant expression belied the carbine idle upon his lap,
Whilst exploring fingers busied themselves in his pocket.
He hummed an unrecognisable tune
But the music was only of bullets and wails.
Though hardened to the moans of his dying mate
He could not end his agony with a single shot.
Life is cheap and his age not yet twelve.
He had never known how to be a child -
No childish games or make believe,
Only stark reality - kill or be killed;
Too young to know why man is born to suffer.
Is life solely to be a martyr for an unknown cause,
A mile to the border could have been a thousand;
Why must there be borders?
Physical borders, religious borders - intolerance.
There was drought but over the border, floods..
He contemplated how life must be in the developed world;
Then suddenly, the music and the wails were no more.



I Heard You Complain - Tiago Tillin - (now a song)

For many a child in many a land
The autumn of their lives is at hand;
They hunger and thirst,
Their bodies fit to burst
But you, my friend, have your fill,
Your life is not yet over the hill,
And yet, my friend, I heard you complain.

The sun is up, the flowers in bloom,
Blackbird is singing his glorious tune.
You've not a worry or care,
Not a burden to bear,
But, my friend, there are tears un your eyes;
Life's game is won and you have the prize -
And yet, my friend, I heard you complain.


Homeless
Jhey Stamper

The fourth world waits and no-one cares -
Fourteen million souls cry out and no-one hears.
They have a right to live, to share this earth,
Each one a precious soul from birth.
Their pathetic cries reach foreign shores
Where seeing eyes and hearing ears shut their doors.
Heaps of cardboard in night-time cities lie,
Till break of day awakes a shadowed sleepy eye:
Faceless children shake off their nightly shroud;
Thousands upon thousands, and still WE are proud!
Typhoons, tempests, tossing leaky boats,
No hand outstretched, no welcome waits -
Just squalor, death, disease - some of the traits.
Evening draws to a close as does life for some,
Children silhouetted looking for a crumb
As they scavenge amongst the rubbish tips
But little do they find to pass between their lips.
Say, friend, spare a coin and a thought these nights,
But soulless souls pass by their human rights.